


That's Sick

by Blunette (Hoshikuzu_san)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cacti & other such Succulents, Humor Defense Mechanism, M/M, Mostly Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8767975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoshikuzu_san/pseuds/Blunette
Summary: Draco doesn't want to go to Pansy's wedding because he's still single and doesn't want to deal with his friends' ribbing, but knows he can't get out of it. Luckily for him, his Auror Partner Harry Potter has the sniffles. If Potter can get him sick, Draco can duck out of the wedding early whilst still showing his best friend support on her special day, and isn’t this brilliant? Especially when the the fastest way for Potter to pass on his illness would be to snog Draco silly. Naturally.





	

“You’ll come, won’t you?”

Draco smiled at Pansy widely. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

On the inside, however, not only was he cringing, but he was already planning every possible way to  _ not  _ go to his best friend’s wedding.

It wasn’t anything against Pansy—more the fact that he was twenty-eight, still not married, and the bloke he was currently dating was more of a monogamous-shag-partner than anything serious. At least, until Draco lost patience with him, or he lost patience with Draco.

He liked to tell his boyfriends that he just wasn’t ready for marriage, but he knew that wasn’t it. It’s because he was waiting. Waiting for someone else, someone better. Which, he acknowledged was a selfish thing to do—string someone along like that—but he never claimed to be selfless, and to be honest, he knew he would make the time wasted  _ well  _ worth their while, thanks ever so.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was, because of Pansy, Draco would officially be the last of his friend group to get married. Not that it was a  _ race _ , but, well, it kind of was. All his friends had called him a player, a heartbreaker, back in school. Admittedly, back then, he had been, but not anymore.

He did care. He did want to settle down. It did hurt whenever he couldn’t  _ connect  _ with someone, especially the guys he dated, who gave an honest effort in connecting with  _ him _ . But he just... didn’t care about them. He cared about lots of people—his friends, his family—but he never really befriended the guys he dated, he supposed, and he couldn’t very well date any of his current friends. They were all bloody married! 

“You won’t, will you?” Pansy asked, snapping him from his admittedly depressing thoughts.

“What?” he asked.

“Miss it,” she said, staring at him with the knowing eyes of someone who had seen him at his worst, and at his best, and knew exactly how his mind worked in desperate situations.

He smiled impossibly wider. “Unless I’m on death’s bed, I’ll be there.”

With an affectionate, huff, she lightly socked him in the arm. “ _ Even  _ if you’re on death’s bed, you’ll be there. You just won’t have to stay for the full ceremony, of course.”

That gave him an idea.

* * *

Draco grimaced as he actively went out of his way to touch all the grossest thing in the Auror Office. The communal coffee pot which was never washed until someone fell ill—actually, he should drink some of that, despite his aversion to that particular brew—the shared staplers, the railings, the handle to the cool-charmed food pantry.

Draco plopped into his desk with a shiver of revulsion.  _ Desperate times call for desperate measures _ , he assured himself as he sipped at the bitter liquid and abstained from sanitizing twitchy hands. He was by no means a germaphobe—he’d touched worse things with his  _ tongue _ —but when he was paying attention to every little grubby thing, and then deliberately  _ touching  _ them, it was as though he had a receipt on hand reminding him of all his repulsiveness.

He glanced up to find Potter, his schoolyard nemesis—more like Draco was madly in love with him and never quite grew out of the pigtail-pulling phase—and very heterosexual Auror Partner staring at him in befuddlement.

“Yes?” he asked patiently.

“You're drinking coffee,” Potter noted.

“How astute of you, Potter. It’s really no wonder that you’re well on your way to becoming Head Auror. Honestly, what  _ will  _ I do without you to comment on-”

Potter scowled. “I meant,  _ why  _ are you drinking coffee?”

“Ah, yes, but that’s not what you said,” Draco reprimanded gently. “But, to answer your question, I have plans that I’m not looking forward to. Leave it to Pansy to send out wedding invitations a week before the event, and simply smile and wave as everyone scrambles around, indubitably fucking with their schedules, but that’s what she wants. She wants to see who will show up, and of course, everyone  _ will _ . If they don’t, they’ll be Dead to her. That’s ‘dead’ with a capital D, Potter, because if someone’s Dead to Pansy, well, they’re Dead to all of us.”

Potter frowned at him. “Then how are you going to get out of it?”

“Oh, no, I’ll still be forced to go.” Draco laughed loudly. “I’m not  _ suicidal _ , Potter. I simply wish to be, say, not in the  _ best  _ of health so that I may retire from the celebration earlier than would be customary for someone in her close circle, such as I.”

“You’re trying to get sick.”

“Yes.”

“By drinking coffee.”

“I have it on good authority that this pot is rarely, if ever cleaned. That’s why you’ve been sniffling lately, I’m sure. It really is amusing to see how inept you are without me to purchase your coffee for you.”

Potter pursed his lips and carefully set down his own mug, but didn't argue because he didn't want Draco to stop bringing him coffee. “Why don’t you want to go to your friend’s wedding?” he asked, instead.

Draco contemplated telling Potter.

Though they’d been partners for nearly three years, they weren’t close. They occasionally went out for a pint, and if they happened to see each other while in the company of their other friends, they would still be invited over and would, of course, accept the invitation and head over to chat with said friends as well, but it wasn’t as though they went out of their way to do any of this. Mostly, though, that was because Draco came up with every excuse he could not to be in Potter’s presence for any such extended periods of time. Especially after imbibing, because that made Potter’s eyes glassy and his cheeks rosy and how was Draco expected to resist? Potter just thought he got flirty when he got drunk, but hadn't seemed to notice yet that Draco was only flirty with him. And Draco planned to keep it that way.

All that being said, one of Draco’s many Potter kinks was to make the git extremely uncomfortable, which is why he often told Potter random bits of personal information that, really, no one wanted to know. For example, his third nipple—it was more of a dusky mark, really. An areola that never formed an actual nipple—or his love of naked cats which, of course, freaked Potter out, but Draco never lied to him. He did love sphinxes, and if they terrified everyone else, well, all the better. Oh, and then there was his (mild, but Potter didn’t need to know that) obsession with musicals.

They were all so terribly outlandish and uncharacteristic of the, “Prince of Slytherin,” Draco Malfoy Potter knew (or thought he knew) from school, which is why Draco got his kicks from it. Potter didn’t believe any of it, but Draco knew, some day, when the were old and working some random case, Draco would prove one of his random little factoids true, accidentally, and Potter would realize he’d been telling the truth, and then he’d realize  _ all  _ of the little factoids had been truths, and how wonderful would that be to witness? To see the realization dawn over those gorgeous green eyes? For Potter to realize Draco had been trusting him with all of these little quasi-secrets from the get-go, and Potter hadn’t even known.

This is why, when Potter asked him why he didn’t want to go to the wedding, Draco was honestly stumped. Should he fib, or tell the truth?

Well, he hadn’t lied to Potter yet, and to be honest, he quite liked the little fantasy of them still old and working together on that case when Potter discovered the truth—all the truths.

He didn’t want to jeopardize that.

“You don’t have to answer that, if it’s too personal,” Potter hastened to add after Draco’s silence. He sniffled a bit as well, probably because he was sick, but it did add to Potter’s innocent expression.

Draco shook his head, tucking the platinum strands that fell from their places behind his ear. “No, that’s not it. It’s just kind of funny, actually, because I was just thinking about this a couple days ago. Why I don’t want to go, I mean,” he clarified, catching Potter’s bright eyes. Just that little connection made his heart flutter.

“So... why don’t you want to go?” Potter repeated, but more softly, as if realizing this might be something Draco was sensitive about.

That only made him more determined to share. “It’s because I’m twenty-eight, still not married, and the bloke I’m currently dating is more of a shag-partner, than anything. I like him, I suppose, but I wouldn’t even want to befriend him, if I’m honest, and how can I really date someone I don’t even want to spend my time with? I couldn’t very well date any of my friends, either, because  _ they’re all married!  _ I don’t even  _ want  _ marriage, necessarily, but it kind of says something that I don’t even have a serious partner, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s more telling that I don’t have a partner  _ and  _ I’m not ready for marriage. I’m nearly thirty! And thiry isn’t old,” he amended, knowing Potter was his age as well, “but I don’t want to marry at, say, sixty.”

“Why worry about marriage if you don’t want it yet?” Potter gazed at him evenly. If he was surprised Draco was opening up to him so much, he had the sensitivity not to show it at that moment. Which Draco was grateful for, because he was, admittedly, feeling very delicate about it all.

“Because I have a point to prove, I suppose. All my friends would joke about it, back in school, you know. They’d say, ‘Oh, Draco, you’re such a player. You’ll never settle down, will you?’ or, ‘Oh, Draco, no one will take you seriously if you keep using humor as a defense mechanism.’ ‘Oh, Draco, you just don’t care about anyone else, do you?’ Which might have been true back then, but I’ve changed! I just don’t have anything to prove it by, considering I  _ am  _ still unmarried. I’m nowhere near settling down, either, and to be candid, I don’t think Jake and I are going to work out. I like shagging and all, but at this point, he’s neither an intriguing stranger nor amiable companion, so I should probably have The Talk with him soon. And—well, the humor defense is still true, but that can’t be helped. If I take you people too seriously, I think I’ll go mad.” Draco paused. “Is this making any sense? I just...” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to go, because I don’t want them to think I’m... pathetic.”

Potter looked at his desk, at his carefully folded hands, at the cacti Draco had dutifully been gifting him every anniversary—“Because you’re such a prick,” Draco would tell him—and then back at his partner. He sniffled again.

“I think you care too much what these people think of you. It’s your life. You should live it how you want to. Even if you never get married, Malfoy, that doesn’t mean no one  _ wanted  _ to marry you, just that a future with marriage didn’t appeal to you. If anything, doing everything they predicted  _ while  _ being a completely different man should teach them more about stereotyping than anything, even if you are still, kind of, a playboy.”

“You know, Potter, I was almost thinking you were such a great partner until that last part. How am I a player? I don’t sleep around-”

“You date people so frequently that you practically do, even if you’re exclusive to them for those short periods.”

“That’s what dating is.”

“Um, no, I think they’re supposed to last more than a week at a time. And I think you're supposed to like them, first, because you’re supposed to  _ befriend them _ , first.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, who has more dating experience here? You haven’t been in a relationship since Ginevra at  _ school _ , if my memory serves. Unless you’ve been courting witches behind my back.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, should I be warning you before I seek partners? I wouldn’t want to go, ‘behind your back,’ again. Besides—I had one relationship, yes, but that lasted  _ years _ . I think I know more about keeping women around.”

“I don’t date women,” Draco reminded.

“It’s not about their sex, or  _ the  _ sex, Malfoy, it’s about having a strong relationship. I-” Potter paused, turned his head away and sneezed into the crook of his elbow. With a face, he cast a quick  _ scourgify _ before continuing. “I’m clearly better at keeping them around.”

“Sure,” Draco agreed dispassionately, “but  _ I’m  _ clearly better at finding ‘them’.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “So you can’t find a date to this wedding next week?”

Draco scrunched up his face mulishly. 

Potter watched, eyes alight with amusement.

“I  _ could _ ,” Draco assured snootily, “but that would be proving the ‘playboy’ label, wouldn’t it? Because it wouldn’t be a serious relationship.”

Potter stared at him, incredulous. “And why are you just assuming it wouldn't be a serious relationship? Go look for someone who wants a serious relationship, then!”

Draco dropped his head to his desk with a groan. “I don’t know how! I  _ think  _ they want a serious relationship, but then things just... dwindle.” He picked up his head with a pitiful expression on his face. “I hate to say it, Potter, especially to you, but I think it’s me. Maybe I’m just undateable. Do I come off as a one-off kind of guy? But wait, they _ do  _ seem interested in a longer relationship, it’s  _ me _ who loses interest.” He paled, horrified. “Merlin, it  _ is _ me!”

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled loudly through his mouth. Probably because his nose was stuffy. “Remember what I said earlier? About befriending them first? Dating isn’t to get to know somebody, Malfoy, that’s what friendship is. Dating is when you already know them, and think you could begin loving them if given the right opportunity.”

Draco was dismayed. “How on earth am I going to befriend someone  _ and  _ date them long enough to dub our relationship ‘serious’ in a week? I can work miracles, Potter, but this requires some kind of divine intervention. Or, well, you.”

Potter raised an eyebrow again. “I’m divine intervention?”

Draco barked out a startled laugh. “I didn’t mean that specifically, but sure. See, you’re obviously sick.”

Potter stared at him in a silent  _ go on _ .

“And I want to be sick,” he said.

Potter just stared at him.

“Get me sick,” Draco demanded bluntly. “That way, if I show up without a date in sight, no one will approach me because I’ll be sneezing, and no one will complain if I leave early—especially if I sneeze during the vows.” Draco grinned darkly. “ _ Especially  _ if I sneeze during the vows,” he repeated, supposedly for theatrical emphasis. “I love Pans and all, I really do, but I’ll be able to die happily—alone, even—knowing I de-romanticized her wedding. Godric knows she deserves it, after all she’s done to me.”

Potter looked wary. “Do I want to know?”

Draco’s smile was delighted. “Oh! You’d like to hear another  _ fascinating  _ tidbit about my life, Potter? Well, Pansy cast a  _ delightful  _ little jinx at me during school in a fit of rage after discovering my, let’s say,  _ team preferences _ after she was  _ so  _ sure about her and me.” His expression darkened. “I couldn’t ejaculate for a month. Do you know how much hormones build up? Especially when we were doing the swimming unit. All those small swimsuits.” Draco shut his eyes and paused, paying silent respect to that wonderful, painful time of his youth. “Wanked myself raw the second I felt the jinx release, because no way in Hell was I going to visit Pomfrey about that. Haven’t forgiven Pansy since. This ought to do the trick, I’d say.”

Potter looked horrified, though from the thought of such a jinx, the thought of Draco fantasizing about the other boys during the swimming unit, or the imagery of his partner ‘wanking himself raw’, Draco wasn’t sure. Perhaps a mixture. Hopefully the last one. He quite liked the thought of Potter imagining him wanking.

“How, exactly, am I to get you sick?” he asked faintly after recovering a bit.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Potter. Maybe, let’s say,  _ spread your germs _ ? Sneeze, cough, wipe your snot on my arm—I don’t care. It’ll all be worth it if I won’t be Dead to Pansy, my friends can shut their fat, married gobs, and vengeance will be had.” Draco laughed sinisterly. “ _ Vengeance _ will be  _ had _ ,” he repeated.

“Malfoy,” Potter said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “that’s fucking disgusting.”

“Good thing you’re disgusting, Potter.”

Potter scowled at him for that, but when he sneezed later on and Draco rushed over to ‘bask’ in the spittle particles still floating about, he kept his gagging to a minimum.

* * *

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, tugging at his hair in frustration. “This isn’t working.”

Potter had the decency to look sympathetic after all of Draco’s hard work. “Have you at least been scouting for potential partners? Just in case?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, between my job, wedding-gift scouting, and generally being the most disgusting sod I’ve ever been in my entire life—including the day I was born, and that one time I thought it would be a brilliant idea to roll around in some animal scat—I’ve managed to pick up  _ loads _ of blokes.”

Potter sighed. “Malfoy, maybe this isn’t really a big deal.”

“Do not attenuate my feelings, Potter.”

Potter predictably softened at that. “Of course not, Malfoy. I just worry that you’re driving yourself ‘round the bend for something that might not be so important in a couple years. You might look back on this when you’re old and wizened and regret not staying for your best friend’s entire wedding. Especially if you’re married by then, or you’ve decided not to marry  _ ever _ , by then.”

Draco gave Potter a searching look, contemplating his words, and contemplating him as a whole. “You know, Potter, I never really considered us close friends or anything. Partners, and good ones, but not much more, and not much less. But right now, you’re being a brilliant friend, so thanks for that. I can’t imagine many others willing to deal with my shite day in and day out.”

Potter smiled a bit. Sniffled again. “Does that mean I won’t get a cactus this year?”

Draco scoffed. “What, and stop your collection at three? Our next anniversary is in a few months!”

Potter shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Why do you even bother to remember things like that?”

Draco smiled cheekily. “I’m good with dates. Besides, I expect you to retire with many, many more cacti, Potter. They’ll look pretty when they all bloom, don’t you think?”

Potter stared at him, long and hard.

Draco shifted a bit. “What?”

“Why not get your own cacti, then?” he asked, but Draco had the distinct impression he’d been thinking something else. Draco was good with gut feelings, like that. It’s part of what made him such a good Auror. He was pretty good at reading people.

He brushed it off and laughed loudly. “Have you  _ seen  _ me? I can’t take care of myself, let alone anything else. That’s the only reason I’ve saved off on getting that sphynx for so long. And you’ve always had a plant kink, yeah?”

Potter sputtered. “What  _ kink _ ?”

“Like, you like plants,” Draco said. He bit his lip in thought. “I thought I could remember you and Longbottom having the biggest hard-ons for herbology back at school.”

Potter was staring at him with that look again. “You remember that?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t a total deadbeat during school like you were, Potter. Some of us  _ did _ open our eyes and look around every once in awhile.”

Potter scowled. “And why do you have to say ‘hard-on’, or ‘kink’? Can’t you just be bloody  _ normal  _ and say something like, ‘plants interest you’?”

Draco smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t be ashamed of your desires, Potter. You only live once, as the kids say.”

“Stop talking like you’re an old man."

Draco shrugged. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe I should date younger? I need someone to keep me interested.”

Potter glanced at his hands, then at the clock, and sniffed again. “Maybe. Or maybe you shouldn’t narrow yourself to that, but find someone who interests you on a friend-level, first.”

Draco sighed, slumping in his chair. “I don’t have any single friends, though.”  _ And you’re straight _ , his mind added.

But when Potter frowned at his hands, which were crossed on his desk, Draco got a gut feeling again. A feeling that Potter’s unvoiced opinions were practically eating him alive from the inside, out. But what wasn’t Potter saying? And why would Draco lamenting his lack of friends bother Potter?

_ Because you just called him a good friend. _

_ But he’s straight! I wouldn’t ask him out, anyway. _

_ But he hasn’t shown any sexual interest in  _ anything  _ since school. He could be asexual, for all I know. People change, right? Eighty-year-olds come out all the time... right? _

_ But Potter would just tell me then, yeah? We’re... “friends” now, so he would say something, wouldn’t he? _

_ Maybe that’s what he wants to say, but he’s scared. Scared of rejection, perhaps. I haven’t shown any outward interest in him. Being openly gay, maybe he assumes I would make some moves on him, or something. I have more respect for him than that, of course, but Potter’s always been an odd one. Maybe... Maybe... _

_ Or maybe he just wants to tell me to shut up? _

Draco sighed. “Besides, I’m not ill yet, anyway. Are you sure you aren’t just sniffling to get out of more work, Potter?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yes, because  _ clearly  _ I’ve been slacking off on my work. I waited to finish those last few reports until this morning; You caught me, Malfoy. The ruse is up.”

Draco regarded him curiously, placing his jaw in his palm.

Potter blinked back at him, surprised by the thoughtful expression. “What?” he asked.

“Has anyone ever told you that you do this thing with your jaw when you’re making shit up?”

Potter snapped said jaw shut before asking, “What? What thing?”

“You flex it,” Draco said. “Which is fairly attractive, seeing as you have a defined, strong jaw-”  _ I wouldn’t mind kissing along that jaw, dragging my teeth down the defined, thick column of your neck, trailing my tongue down to your racing pulse,  _ “but it could give you away in the future. I don’t remember it, however, so it could just be with me, or maybe you aren’t  _ seriously  _ trying to convince me that you’re a slacker. I’m quite honestly  _ dumbfounded  _ which one it is.”

Potter stared at him. “I wasn’t aware you spent so long focusing on my ‘defined, strong jaw’.”

In a split second decision, Draco rolled his eyes and said, “I’m your gay associate, not  _ blind _ . Just because I don’t make passes at you doesn’t mean I don’t find you attractive.”

At Potter’s shocked silence, Draco added hastily, “Because I respect you, of course, not because I fear your heterosexual rejection fragmenting my stone cold, blackened heart. You rejecting my cacti, on the other hand, could do the trick.”

_ Humor defense mechanism _ .

Potter shook his head slowly. “I—I’m not—Thanks, I guess?”

Draco squinted at him. “What on earth was that? ‘I’m not thanks, I guess’?”

“I was going to say something else-”

“And what was that?” Draco inquired.

“Nothing, I-”

“The only replies beginning with, ‘I’m not’ that could have worked were either, ‘I’m not respectable,’ which is bullshit and too modest for you, anyway-”

“Hey!”

“-‘I’m not heterosexual,’ which would lead to me then suggesting we just snog so you can pass on your illness that way, or ‘I’m not going to reject you,’ which would attest to that last hypothetic reply, unless you would have suggested a friend-date, which would offend me deeply. Or you were referring to the cacti, which would delight me.”

Potter made a face. “Do you actually ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m on a role, Potter. If the snog thing is actually on the table, that would be a failsafe way to save my arse, so yes, I’m going to pursue that line of thought like a crup with a bone until you flat out reject the idea. Because, again, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if that would, well, discomfit you.”

Potter’s face warped further. “You would snog me to catch my sickness.”

“I’ve done worse.”

Potter scowled. “Okay, wow, thanks, Malfoy.”

“Anytime, Potter. Unless you want me to talk to you sweetly? I can wax poetic about your jaw more, or your eyes, or the way one side of your mouth lifts higher than the other when you smile, or your strange ear-tugging habit when you’re nervous, or how broad your hands are compared to your smallish feet, but if none of this is getting me closer to a snog and therefore closer to vengeance and redemption, I really don’t see the point.”

Potter was staring at him with that  _ look  _ again.

“Have you been watching me, Malfoy?”

“Of course, Potter. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not like you do. Not like that.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Where is this leading us on the whole snog thing?”

“Why would I snog you-”

“That right there!” Draco accused, not letting him finish. “That  _ look _ ! Like you want to eat me alive!”

Potter uncharacteristically flushed bright red—from the tips of his ears down to the unseen beneath the collar of his Auror robes.

“I—what?” he stuttered, all composure lost, and Draco leapt on his chance.

“You  _ do _ ,” he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair with the confidence and pleasure of the kneazle who’d got the cream. “You  _ do _ want to snog me, then?”

“What?” Potter screeched. “ _ No _ !” he denied with a vehemence that would have been insulting if Draco wasn’t so sure of the opposite. He was good at reading people, remember, and Potter was a whole mess of his own, but a mess Draco could read like a book. Like Pansy watching him, Draco had spent much of his adolescence—who was he kidding? And now—watching Potter.

“Remember what I said earlier about not feeling ashamed of your desires? It’s perfectly acceptable to be bi-curious, Potter. Draco-curious? I know some people who are completely straight, but then they have this one exception. I’m definitely worth being that exception,” Draco boasted, posing; leaning back and exposing his throat, tossing his head like a model whose only redeeming qualities were his dashing good looks.

Potter just spluttered some more. “Oh my God,  _ no _ ,” he hissed.

Draco laughed, easing up on The Charm ™ . “I’m only teasing,” he said. “But if you do ever want to experiment, I’ve heard plenty of stories about your supposed talent with those broad hands of yours.”

Potter, still as red as a fireflight dragon and twice as huffy, fled the room with a frustrated growl.

* * *

Draco sighed. It was borderline torturous meetings like these that reminded him why he preferred being out in the field, working cases, even if it left him with mountains of paperwork when he returned. At least he was in Potter’s company when doing paperwork. Here, he was just sitting among the other Aurors, listening to the current Head go on and on about little changes to the HQ here, small cases opening up there.

Oh, and Potter was across the table from him, staring at him with that intensity that made Draco’s skin prickle pleasantly.

When Draco caught his eyes, of course, he hastened to look away, but the slight blush on his cheeks outed him. Draco frowned. Had Potter always flushed so easily, or was this new? He could vaguely remember Potter’s cheeks pinkened when they went for that occasional pint, but he could never quite tell if it was his buzzed flirting or the alcohol that made Potter that rosy in the face.

Perhaps a mix of both, if recent discoveries were to be trusted.

Throughout the meeting, Draco made a point of lounging in his chair, of curving his shoulder to arch his body, of brushing his hair out of his face and letting just the right amount frame his visage charmingly.

Potter was still bright red when the meeting ended, so he either noticed Draco’s flaunting, or he was just that red nowadays.

Back at the office, Draco didn’t harp on him about it, not wanting to scare the boy he’d been crushing on for a large portion of his  _ lifetime  _ away, but, well, he didn’t have the patience to be subtle, knowing now that  _ Potter was at least somewhat interested in him _ . Or perhaps just men in general? Draco was most certainly a man, so that shouldn’t matter, either way. As long as Potter was up for a little experimentation.

That being said, Draco removed his robes—something he almost never did, unless it was ‘between-Circe’s-tits hot out’—to show off his tight-fitting top and even tighter trousers that did  _ wonders  _ for his arse. His lack of pants underneath said trousers may have helped, as well. He propped his legs up on his desk, accentuating their length, their smooth form—his powerful thighs, the way his boots fit snugly against his calves.

“Really, Malfoy?” Potter growled. “What are you, flirting?”

Draco flashed him a grin. “That depends, is it working?”

“No!”

“Then I sit like this naturally,” Draco said, turning back to his parchments. When Potter kept glaring at him, Draco glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, does it bother you?”

“ _ No _ ,” Potter assured coldly, “but it’s not very professional.”

“What isn’t?” Draco asked innocently. “I’m merely reclining as I do my work.”

“You’re practically indecent!” Potter blurted.

Draco smirked. “Curious you’d think so, Potter. I happen to find your blatant beauty ‘practically indecent’, but that’s my personal opinion, not fact, and therefore has no place in the workplace, if you ask me.”

Potter threw his hands in the air, frustrated beyond words, apparently, before returning to his side of the office to sulk at his desk.

They worked in silence for a few more minutes.

And then, “So about that snog-”

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

* * *

Draco tried. He really did. He couldn’t recall trying as hard for any other man in quite a long time. They usually just sort of came to him, but Potter most certainly wasn't.

He bought Potter the best coffee, he bought the Golden Boy a bouquet of flowers—which, proving Draco’s suspicion of a kink, Potter liked a surprising amount, despite how he tried to hide his shocked delight at the unorthodox gift—he wove compliments for Potter casually into the conversation every few hours, and even though he was rebuffed every time with a roll of Potter's eyes, Draco did invite him out to HQ cafeteria for lunch every day since the snog-quest began.

It was Thursday, and the wedding was Sunday, and Draco had already spent too much time pursuing the ever-elusive Potter—who still, by the way, hadn’t straight out told him to fuck off—to turn back now.

And he didn’t want to.

He  _ liked  _ Potter.

As in, he didn’t just want to shag, but he wanted...

He wanted to spend his weekends with Potter. To see Potter in the old sweatshirts with holes that Draco knew he preferred (and often wore beneath his robes). He wanted to wake up and have Potter smile at him with that sleepy, dopey smile and scruffy hair that he sometimes did very early in the morning when Draco was thoughtful enough to bring him freshly brewed, freshly bought coffee (which, after the first smile, he’d taken to doing often). He wanted to sit back and listen to Potter hum while he made breakfast in this attire. He wanted to see how the light would flow in through the window near the sink, how it would hit Potter as he sat down across from Draco at the table for breakfast, and how it would highlight the auburn in his hair, the ring of gold around his pupils in his bright, friendly eyes. He wanted to kiss every faint freckle on Potter’s face, to watch those eyelashes flutter shut as he sighed into him, trustingly, lovingly, and Draco wanted to hold him.

He didn’t want to just grow old together to keep solving cases, but he wanted to grow old together with  _ Potter  _ by his side, to keep solving those cases. Maybe he could convince Potter to get a sphynx, even though the whole naked cat thing freaked him out, because Draco knew it would grow on Potter, who would end up feeding the odd, lovely little companion when Draco was too busy doing Godric knows what, Godric knows where, because Potter was reliable, and too damn loving not to adore the creature. 

Maybe Draco could help Potter expand his garden from more than just the little cacti collection which they would place on the windowsill in the kitchen, or the living room, where they could admire them as they grew along with their owners. They could curl on the couch, listening to the wireless with the cat, just breathing, resting, because time was so precious, and they weren’t old yet, but there was no rush to get there. They could just  _ be  _ with one another.

And Potter would look at him, every day, with those bright eyes and that  _ smile  _ and his laugh, and Draco would remember those odd days at school when they weren’t fighting, nor ignoring each other, but simply coexisting in the same space. Breathing the same air, sharing each other’s company. And their friends wouldn’t be around to egg on their childish little feud, and it would just be up to them to decide where things went. And Potter would, inevitably, smile at him shyly, and Draco would make a face. And then Potter would scowl, and Draco would laugh, and then they were both smiling.

And Draco... he wanted it. He’d always wanted it. But now that Potter wasn’t  _ so straight _ , no  _ unyieldingly  _ uninterested, now that there was a  _ slight  _ possibility, it hurt. He wanted this so much it hurt. And he was playing it all off as some joke, as some playful teasing and flirting with a flustered Potter, but it wasn’t a game.

Humor as a defense mechanism. Draco hadn’t outgrown it, and it never mattered before, but he hated it, now. He hated it, he  _ hated  _ it, because Potter couldn’t know how much this mattered. How none of the rest mattered—the wedding, the spreading of his illness to avoid said wedding—none if the rest mattered but  _ this _ , this mattered. 

Potter couldn’t know that Draco was serious about dating him, that Draco had been almost purposefully sabotaging his other relationships—flings, more like— because he was waiting. Waiting on Potter. Waiting forever, possibly, but  _ now _ , now he had a  _ chance _ , and he couldn’t  _ fucking  _ articulate himself. He’d been practicing, trying; that’s why he gave Potter the odd little factoid about himself. Yes, because he liked Potter’s disturbance at the random (often inappropriate) information, but because he was practicing being honest. Being blunt. To override this bloody mechanism he had, this impulse to make everything a joke, to make his life all a fucking joke.

But then Thursday night came to a close and Potter stood from his desk with the shaking of his head, an affectionate, albeit annoyed expression on his face. The second he turned his back to grab his jacket, Draco’s coy smile fell.

Because this wasn’t a game. And he only had until Sunday. Then he wouldn’t have the excuse. Then, Potter wouldn’t see it for what it really was, either, but as desperation; as a desire for some odd one-off, or one of Draco’s apparently characteristic week-long relationships.  _ Now  _ Draco had an excuse to ask him out on an actual date, be it the wedding, or a date before the wedding, just to test the waters, just to see if Potter was someone Draco was serious enough about to  _ take  _ to the wedding. Because that’s what Potter kept saying, wasn’t it? Date someone with the  _ intention  _ of it being serious? So if Draco asked him now, Potter would know he wanted something serious. But Draco  _ wasn’t _ asking Potter out, because he was scared, and because of it, Potter would never see it as something serious ever again, unless Draco could connect two brain cells and form a coherent enough explanation to all of his bottled up feelings and emotions.

But all that would come out would be a joke.

Because Draco couldn’t handle serious.

He couldn’t ask Potter to the wedding, because he was an inarticulate fool, and because he couldn’t ask Potter to the wedding, Potter wouldn’t think Draco was serious about him.

Which was the problem, wasn’t it? Draco was  _ too  _ serious about it. So serious, in fact, that he couldn’t handle it, which is where the bloody  _ humor  _ poured out.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked.

Draco snapped into focus, realizing Potter was staring at him, jacket clenched in one of Potter’s tightened fists.

Potter was staring at him, searching his face, and Draco was tempted to smile, to wink, but he didn’t. He  _ hoped  _ Potter would see something, hoped Potter could tell what he was thinking by Draco’s expression alone, whatever it was, because Draco sure as hell couldn’t.

_ Just tell him everything _ , a voice said, but he silenced it brutally. Because Potter didn’t know Draco actually crushed on him. That he had been crushing on him for years. A decade and a half, more like.

“Malfoy,” Potter repeated, but this wasn’t a question. It was a calling, a summoning.

Draco tried to focus. He felt lost. Desperate. Hopeless.

“This isn’t a game,” he said.

Potter stared at him.

“I’m not playing,” Draco said. “I can’t... I-” He cracked a smile. “I’m always playing, though, aren’t I?” he laughed softly. “You should see me at poker,” he joked. “No one can tell when I’m taking the piss, because I’m almost  _ always _ taking the piss.”

Potter cracked a small smile. “I don’t think you’re as good an actor as you think you are, Malfoy, but sure, we can pretend you’re good at poker.”

Draco laughed again, but inside, he ached. His pulse raced.

_ I don’t think you’re as good an actor as you think you are, Malfoy. _

_ Stop. _

“G’night, Malfoy,” Potter called, pulling on his coat and heading for the door.

This time, Draco kept his smile on until Potter left.

Then, he cast a silencing charm, and screamed.

He hated it, he  _ hated  _ it.

* * *

Draco ran a hand through his hair. He sighed. He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes.

The wedding was in two days.

He sighed again.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, sounding just as weary and worn as his partner. “You're stressing about this too much. You look like you haven't slept.”

Draco, who had dropped his head into his hands, peeked between his fingers at the Auror occupying the desk opposite his. “I haven't, and I am. I either have to go to the wedding and prove to these people that they were right all along-”

Potter looked exasperated. “Like I said before, doing just as they predicted while being a different person than they predicted will be just as powerful-”

“But I'm not single by choice, Potter!” Draco snapped. 

He didn't snap at people anymore, not really. He was a pretty relaxed, playful guy, most of the time, but he was done pretending for the week. He would be better by Monday, he just had to play until Monday. Then all of this would be over.

“It  _ is  _ just like they said, because I  _ do  _ only date wizards for a week because I get bored of them. I'm not some heartless monster, I care about them on a basic level, but I'm not-” he ran another hand through his hair, knowing it was too far along to try and tame it now, “I'm not  _ interested  _ in them. They're not who I want.”

“Who do you want?” Potter asked.

“I want to get sick, so I don't have to go for the whole thing,” he grumbled snidely, purposefully sidestepping the previous question.

Potter opened his mouth, no doubt for some kind of rebuttal, but was cut off by a series of raps at their door.

“Come in,” Draco called tiredly, and Weasley popped his head in.

“Err, sorry to bother you, but do you have those files I asked for, Malfoy?”

Draco frowned. “Files?”

“Yeah, on the Mclaggen case?”

As the blond rifled through his desk, the redhead turned to the other Auror.

“How are you doing, Harry? Shaken off that cold yet?”

Potter replied, “My nose is less runny, by my temperature’s still a little high. Woke up with a killer of a sore throat this morning.”

“Shit, Weasley, I'm sorry,” Draco interrupted. “It was right at the top of my list of things to-do, even. Well, below my list of gift ideas for Potter and my’s next anniversary.”

Weasley groaned. “Ah, the fabled list. What is it going to be this year? Let me guess. Maybe a... cactus? Like the  _ past three years _ ?”

Draco smirked. “It's the  _ species  _ of cactus that matters, Weasley. How else am I going to remember what I gave him what year?”

“I don't know why you would even bother to remember,” Weasley huffed.

“These are the important things that take up the forefront of my mind,” Draco said easily. “Your report just didn't make the cut. I'll get it to you on Monday, yeah? Sorry about that.”

With a sigh, the redhead nodded and left the room.

Draco glanced at Potter, who was staring at him.

“What?”

“You're having a crisis over this wedding, but you still have the time to plan out a gift for me? When even is the anniversary?”

“Four weeks,” Draco replied, frowning. “How have you not memorized it by now? It's been-”

“Nearly four years, yes, so why are you planning so early?”

Draco shifted a bit, uncomfortable. “Different species of cacti have different meanings. I try to find one that represents how you and I were for the year; one that will symbolize and remind me of what we accomplished and how we've grown. That way, whenever I look at it, I’ll remember. It takes time to find one that will survive easily at your desk without temperature or humidification charms, not to mention ordering them. Some of the plants are quite magical, you see, so floo delivery isn't an option, and dealers aren't inhumane enough to make a single owl make the trip all the way across the world-”

“That,” Potter cut him off. “That is what makes you such a wonderful partner. You're thoughtful, to a nearly ridiculous degree—a sodding  _ Auror partnering _ anniversary gift? Most people would settle with a card, if  _ anything _ , not plan out a present for months.”

“I get sentimental,” Draco sniffed.

“Except, you don't,” Potter said. “You get me cacti because you know how much  _ I _ like plants. You get me coffee nearly every morning because  _ I _ like coffee. You stay late even when you've finished all your reports just to keep me company, even if you pretend it's just to annoy the shit out of me so I'll, ‘finish faster.’”

Draco's mouth was clamped shut.

“You're a wonderful partner,” Potter continued softly. “So why do you keep telling me that no one interests you, or no one wants you? I know for a fact that you could find someone, if you wanted.”

“I'm not really all that thoughtful to my boyfriends,” Draco muttered awkwardly, rubbing at his nape and further displacing his hair. “My friends, maybe, but not my boyfriends. I don't date people I like.”

“And why is that,” Potter asked, voice soft, eyes even softer. It hurt.

“Because I sabotage them all,” Draco croaked. “I don't want to hurt them, but I know it won't last. I make sure it won't last. I date people who don't want much from me, and when I accidentally catch someone who does, I,” Draco faltered, “I crush them. I say I'm not interested, when I know I could be. I could become interested.”

Potter watched him patiently.

“But I don't want to,” Draco rasped. “They're not the one I want. And I know—I  _ know  _ I could grow to love them, but they're not—I don't want to settle-” He laughed shakily. “Is this making any sense at all? I want and I want and I want, but I'm not even worth all the trouble.”

Potter shook his head. “That not true, Malfoy, and you know it. And I didn't stay with Ginny because, as much as I loved her, I knew I could feel more, and she wasn't giving me that. It sounds selfish, but that's human. I didn't want to settle, either, and I'm single, and she's already in a new long-term relationship, but I don't regret it one bit. She was _enough_ , but she wasn't everything I knew I _could_ have, and I want that. I want and want and want, too, but I think everyone does.”

Draco placed his jaw in his palm and regarded his partner.

Potter smiled a bit. “Thinking about how good a friend I am, again?”

Draco smiled back, but wider. He wiped at his eyes as he nodded, and laughed. “Yeah, actually. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘and this is why I put so much effort into my anniversary gifts,’ or, ‘what would I do without you,’ but yeah, ‘good friend’ works, too.”

Potter's eyes sparkled when he grinned, and Draco indulged, watching the way it lit up his whole face before glancing away.

He rubbed his fingertips against his quill thoughtfully. He had an invitation to reply to, when he got home.

* * *

And then it was Sunday.

“I’m so glad you could make it, darling,” Pansy murmured as she pulled him in for a brief hug.

He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you I would make it?”

She regarded him blankly for a moment, and then, “Well, I thought you might conveniently fall sick. Oh, don’t look so surprised, darling. We all know how much you dislike socializing with people we used to know back at school. Especially Gryffindors—I can agree, they tend to assume none of us have changed,” she muttered beneath her breath as one such Gryffindor passed close by. Seeing as her marriage was to Finnigan, it was a given that their wedding would be filled with those of both Slytherin and Gryffindor. “And,” she continued, eyeing him, “you look a bit wan, indeed. Didn’t sleep well?”

His smile faltered, but remained stubbornly on his face. “That’s just what a bloke wants to hear after he dressed up for an occasion so very important to him.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow.

Draco elbowed her huffily. “Of course this is important, Pans. You’re my best friend. Even though I did, actually, try to find ways to skiv out of staying until the end of your ‘holy matrimony,’ none other than my dimwit of an Auror partner Potter, actually, managed to convince me that I would regret not witnessing an event as spectacular as this. Pansy Parkinson. Getting  _ married _ . To the man she loves, and hopes to grow old and love more and more each day, and Salazar, it’s so unlike you yet I so very Pansy. And this,” he gestured to the dining hall, “is gorgeous.  _ You’re  _ gorgeous.”

And she was. A whisper of red hazed her lower eyelids while imperious black emboldened her upper lash line, giving her eyes a piercing intensity. A candid splash of blood red coated her lips, the same color of the flowers on the clip pinning back her onyx hair, only her blunt bangs daring to intrude upon her porcelain visage to rest delicately above her immaculately sculpted eyebrows. Her dress looked silken and pure, open-backed, while the gown itself held ruffles like the rolls of the ocean when she walked.

But mostly, it was her eyes. Pansy had dark brown eyes, practically black, but then, and there, adorned in her dress, surrounded by friends and family, and more importantly, wedded to the man she loves, her dark eyes looked bright, lighting up her whole face—the whole room.

She was gorgeous.

Draco’s smile was sincere. “I love you, you know that?”

Pansy hugged him again, this time fiercely.

“Of course, you ponce,” she cursed affectionately. Her voice sounded thick.

“Does a reparo fix makeup mussed by tears?” he teased, because the emotions were choking him as well.

She punched him lightly, likely in retaliation for his earlier attack, and when she pulled away from him, she sniffled.

“Potter was right,” she declared. “I would have  _ made _ you regret it.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “I’m sure.”

“And I’m glad you’re happy you came.”

His eyes sparkled. “So am I.”

“Ah, the woman of the hour,” a familiar voice cut in politely. “Congratulations, Parkinson.”

Draco gaped as Potter gave Pansy a brief hug.

“Potter?” he asked faintly. “What on earth?”

Pansy raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t know he was invited? Aren’t you partners?”

“Friends with Finnegan, of course,” Potter explained.

“And no one  _ told  _ me?” Draco asked, incredulous.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you, Draco. Potter.” She nodded at them both before departing.

“I thought you knew, honestly,” Potter replied.

Draco gaped at him some more, then purposefully reigned in his unjustified irritation. “No, I hadn’t—well, I suppose I should have, but  _ no _ , I didn’t really make the connection. After all my whinging, you didn’t think to mention it once?”

“And what? Offer to be your date to a wedding we’re both already going to?” Potter scoffed.

“Yes!” Draco blurted. Then, he snapped his mouth shut at Potter’s shocked expression.

“I,” Potter started, “I thought... That you knew I was going, and still didn’t want to, you know, ask me, so I just... Well, you still could have invited me,” Potter tried awkwardly, flush rising to his cheeks.

“I’ve been trying!” Draco insisted. “I just get shy!”

“Shy?” Potter asked, disbelieving. “How hard can it be to ask me out when you’ve been buying me cacti for four years?”

“You kept going on about how anyone would want to date such a  _ wonderful  _ partner like me, but then never asked me out yourself!”

“Well, neither did you!” Potter accused, looking faintly hurt. “You kept saying how you would want to date a friend, so naturally, I thought I would pop in somewhere here, but then you said  _ all  _ your friends were taken.”

Draco made a few fruitless attempts at replying, most of them aborted as soon as a syllable left his lips which left him gesturing wildly and making odd noises for a few moments before he collected himself. “I’m not actually insane,” he settled with.

Potter stared at him.

“I wouldn’t actually ask anyone,  _ even  _ my best friends, to snog me in order to pass on their illness or whatever. That’s ridiculous, and invasive, and honestly not really me. I only act so insane around  _ you _ , because, well, I’ve sort of been wanting to snog you for a long time,” Draco admitted sheepishly, quietly, because they were in a crowded dining hall, and no one appeared to be eavesdropping, but Draco wasn’t emotionally ready for a grand confession of love in such a public area.

Potter, as if sensing this, or perhaps simply having trouble hearing him, stepped closer.

“And I did want to ask you to come,” Draco continued, softer, and Potter neared some more. “But I didn’t want you to think it was just because I wanted one of my, apparently characteristic, week-long relationships, so I figured inviting you to the wedding you told me to only bring someone I was serious about to would be the perfect opportunity, but it was in a a few days! I hadn’t said anything to you since we left bloody school— _ since _ school, if I’m honest. I never really liked Quidditch all that much, on its own, but going up against  _ you  _ at Quidditch might have been a minor kink of mine—and how could I ask you out in a couple days when I hadn’t managed to ask you out to the Yule Ball in Fourth Year?”

“I had no idea,” Potter said, eyes wide in surprise, or awe, or a mix. 

“Yes, well, I have this humor defense mechanism where I make everything important to me a game-”

“No, I mean, I knew you liked me, kind of,” Potter amended with a little grin, “just not how long. I didn’t like you much in Fourth Year.”

Draco stared at him. “Are you seriously rejecting my Fourth Year self? That was the last year I was cute.”

Potter gave a startled laugh before, “I didn’t like you much because I didn’t know you. But... I liked the thought of you, I suppose. Quite a bit.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed me.”

Potter tilted his head, eyes not searching, but seeing something. “I have a feeling we’ve always been incredibly aware of one another. Most of my memories at school, admittedly, were of watching you. I wasn’t a deadbeat either, Malfoy. Just when you were around. Because I was distracted. I never knew you suffered the same affliction... You didn’t even take herbology with us, did you?”

Draco sniffed, but his face was red. “Longbottom and I spoke occasionally. Everything was  _ herbology this _ and  _ Harry that _ .” He didn’t mention that three fourths of the reason he humored Longbottom’s rambling was  _ because  _ of how often he mentioned Potter’s delighted expression at seeing the leaping toadstools leap, or how much Potter had wanted to keep a bowtruckle.

Potter shook his head, but he was smiling. “Well. This was rather a surprise.”

Draco regarded him accusingly. “You said you knew I’d liked you.”

“A bit,” Potter corrected. “I knew you liked me a bit. Because you kept asking to snog. You know. But this is better. Knowing that you’ve sort of liked me as long as I’ve sort of liked you.”

Draco nodded, a tad shy, and glanced around the room, unsure.

“Malfoy,” Potter said softly, “you can snog me now, if you want.”

And he did.

And then he took his partner home—now, in both senses of the word—and Potter taught him how to stay in a long-lasting relationship by, of course, ensuring their relationship lasted a long, long time.

So long, in fact, that Potter did end up having a rather large cacti garden that also extended into other types of succulents.

They did get a sphynx cat, named Ambrosius upon Draco’s demand, and the snobbish little prince lived up to the title. Not as much as his father, of course—if anyone asked, Brosius was Draco’s son—but Potter somehow found both of them endearing. Potter also found Draco’s third nipple endearing, though  _ honestly, Harry, it’s more of a blemish than anything _ , but Potter liked it because he was just a kinky sod, wasn’t he?

They listened to musicals on the wireless, and when Draco had particularly wooed Potter, could convince him to go with Draco all the way to the  _ theatre _ to see one. To be honest, purchasing tickets to  _ Hamilton _ had been one of the best decisions Draco had made. Even Potter had enjoyed that one, and he had a mullish temperament that could rival Ambrosius’.

And they made breakfast together, and love together, and Weasley’s congratulatory card at their wedding said,  _ Hope it doesn’t succ _ , and Draco couldn’t even do anything other than cackle because Weasley was an enabler of Draco’s cacti obsession, and judging by Potter’s twitching eye, he knew it, too.

And they lived happily ever after.

**The end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. There really wasn't much snogging in this at all. Someone should do something about that.


End file.
